


My Boy Builds Coffins

by tenlittlecock_bites



Series: My Boy Builds Coffins [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, M/M, OT6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenlittlecock_bites/pseuds/tenlittlecock_bites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones was dead. At least, according to all official, and unofficial paperwork, he was dead. All traces of him had disappeared from the planet, as if he had simply vanished into thin air. His name wasn't even in the records the Los Santos Police Department had of the Fake AH Crew. Nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I haven't posted anything on here in forever I'm so sorry (check out my writing blog on tumblr tenlittlecock-writes for a few things I didn't post here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go through and clean up this fic a bit before (hopefully) continuing it
> 
> Comments are much appreciated! ♡

Michael Jones was dead. At least according to all official, and unofficial paperwork he was. All traces of him had disappeared from the planet, as if he had simply vanished into thin air, or hadn't ever existed in the first place. No birth certificate, no social security number, no police records. Nothing, nothing except for the memories in people's heads.

Mark Flynt, however, was very much alive. He mirrored Michael Jones exactly in appearance and fiery mannerisms that hinted at his quick temper and sharp tongue, but he wasn't Michael Jones. Not according to his driver's license or even the few acquaintances (he didn't dare consider anyone a ‘friend’, knowing very well what could happen to them) he had made the past four years, not daring to get too close to anyone in case his past came back to bite him in the ass.

It was Mark Flynt who bid his friends goodnight as he left the small bar on the street corner of the quaint, small Oregon town he lived in. It was Mark Flynt who walked down the streets feeling at ease in this peaceful, crime-free town.

It was Michael Jones, though, who snapped to attention as the car skid to a halt beside him on the rain-slicked pavement, tires squealing on the damp surface. It was Michael Jones who pulled the knife from his pocket, and it was Michael Jones who was thrust right back into the life he had oh so carefully escaped years ago in one single fight.

\- - -

Michael ran into his apartment and slammed the door behind him, sliding every single lock into place for the first time since he had moved in. He pressed the end of his sleeve to his bleeding lip, cursing at the faint sting. He hadn't expected them to find him, not this soon at least, if at all. Didn't even think that they would be looking for him, considering that everyone back home thought he was _dead_. He jumped at every creak the old building made with the wind that blew outside, stuffing minimal possessions with practiced ease into a duffel bag, muscle memory from his time with the crew kicking in. It wasn't a rare thing for them to have to make a quick getaway in the middle of the night, and all those memories came screaming back to him in his haste to leave.

He had foolishly thought that those days were behind him now.

Michael shoved the memories to the back of his mind and didn't let himself think about anything past tending to the few wounds he sustained during the fight (a split lip, some bruises here and there, a pretty nasty cut on his upper arm that had ruined his favorite leather jacket) and getting the fuck out.

It was with a sick turn in his gut that he realized he couldn't take his own car. If those assholes knew where he was going to be walking back to tonight, the exact street he would take to do so, they most likely knew his license plate number and car model too. They were professionals, after all, whoever the hell they were.

Cautiously, he pulled his blinds aside, spotting two men in black standing near his inconspicuous silver Honda. Stepping away from the window, he ran through his options in his head as he was already heading toward the window in the dining room.

He'd climb down from his window and drop into the bushes where, hopefully, his fall would be broken. Then, it was only a matter of deciding whether he wanted to try and steal someone's car or catch a bus out of town.

He knew instantly, of course, that there was no one in town he could justify stealing a vehicle from, especially with winter just around the corner. He hadn't gotten close to anyone in the past few years, but that didn't mean that he felt good about stealing from them.

So, with a tight grip on the knife in his pocket and a hood thrown on over his curls, he waited for the bus as the rain started up again. He visibly relaxed as the bus pulled up, stepping onto the warm vehicle and handing the driver the dollar twenty-five it would cost him to ride the thing.

As he took his seat, he noticed almost instantly the two other passengers shifting closer to him. It was stupid to think anything public would be safe. Before he could back out of this terrible idea of using public transportation to escape a group of god knows how many people trying to attack him, the bus was moving.

His fingers stayed firmly wrapped around his knife, pretending to be preoccupied with watching the drops of rain run down the length of the glass windows of the bus, but the darkness beyond the panes granted him a great mirror to keep watching the other passengers: one a woman with deep purple hair, the other a man with a greasy looking beard. The two were talking in hushed tones, and Michael was just about to put his paranoia down to just that, being overly paranoid, when the woman moved with a speed he wasn't expecting, locking an arm around his neck and wrenching him to his feet and, in turn, out of his seat. She was surprisingly strong for someone with such a small stature, that was for damn sure.

Michael struggled to get the knife free from his pocket, only to have it fall from his hand as the bus screeched to a halt. Both he and the purple haired woman tumbled to the ground, the blade skidding across the aisle and disappearing underneath a seat.

"What the hell is going on here?" The bus driver demanded, then froze and slowly raised his hands as the greasy looking man pointed a gun at him.

Michael used the distraction to attempt to retrieve the now-missing knife, but the woman was faster, pinning his arms behind his back, bent at a highly uncomfortable angle, pinning him effectively to the floor as he struggled feebly and uselessly. He was really out of practice.

"Matt, no civilian casualties." She scolded, and the man, evidently called Matt, huffed, his pistol still trained on the driver.

"I know, Meg." He replied, "But I couldn't exactly let him call the cops, could I?"

"Fine. Just have him bring us to the meeting point, Geoff doesn't like to be away from Los Santos for too long."

Michael felt his blood go cold at the sound of that name. Geoff. He hadn't heard in years, except for in nightmares that had forced him into insomnia, then, when he was getting to the point of being _very_ unhealthy, a prescription for sleeping pills.

He grunted as he was pulled to his feet, wrists bound together by rope, expertly tied by Meg, as Matt gave the bus driver directions, the gun still pointed at the back of his head.

The longer they drove, the more Michael felt like he was either going to pass out or throw up. His face was drained of all color, except for the spots of light brown from his freckles, when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bus window.

By the time they came to a screeching halt beside a dark, nearly empty rest stop parking lot, Michael was just struggling to remember how to breathe, every step feeling like he was moving through molasses as Meg led him by a firm grip on his arm to a caravan of cars, one of which he noticed instantly with the bright green Fake AH Crew logo emblazoned on the hood. Risky, but Geoff had always liked a bit of risk. Also loved to show off.

The first thing Michael registered in his mind was the fact that Geoff had shaved his mustache. The second was that the man was looking at him with a cold, distant look, his once crystal blue eyes now more closely resembling hard, cold steel. The change unnerved Michael more than the ropes binding his wrists together, more than the caravan of mercenaries surrounding him even if he could make an escape from his bonds, guns trained on him with steady hands.

"Sorry 'bout all this buddy." Geoff said, although his tone implied that he was anything but. The old pet name, however, sent a pang of nostalgia and homesickness through Michael's heart, making it almost hard to breathe again. As Geoff turned away, he could just make out the grimace the older man made as he gave an order to one of the mercs standing around them. A moment later, Michael felt a pinching sensation on the side of his neck, and then his world went black, his knees buckling beneath him as he was forced into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

After Michael came to the first time, his head was still swimming, his mind barely able to register the fact that his wrists were cuffed together, and the road was dark except for the occasional street light illuminating the inside of the car as they passed by. He could remember each and every time he had been in this same seat. Like the time he had almost gotten his hand burnt off as Ryan shot a flare out the back window while Michael shot at the police cars following them, or the one time that he had gotten totally wasted with Gavin and Geoff insisted on bringing him home, the two of them joking and laughing as soon as Geoff stopped his concerned dad act and loosened up a bit.

But now... Now there was no joking. Geoff had his eyes locked on the road, not looking over as Michael stirred. The only indication that he even knew that the younger man was awake was from the slight tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel.

Michael tried to lift his head from the window, but that caused the world to tilt and shift around him, the sensation not helped at all by the movement of the car. He groaned and closed his eyes, slipping back into unconsciousness again.

\- - -

The process repeated like this several more times as they drove, Geoff remaining completely silent the entire drive, not a word spoken between the two of them.

After he woke up for what Michael assumed to be the fourth or fifth time, he was lying down on a bed, staring up at a blank white ceiling, the fluorescent lights causing his eyes to water slightly before he closed them. He slowly sat up, glad that the movement didn't cause the world to tilt on its axis.

Michael slowly opened his eyes and let them adjust to the light before examining his surroundings. The bed that he was sitting on was pushed up against a blank white wall identical to the other three, although one sported a thick iron door and the other what appeared to be a mirror. In the middle of the room was a table with two chairs, both bolted to the floor. Another small door lead to a bathroom, but Michael already knew that there was no chance for escape in there.

He pushed himself up from the bed and walked up to the mirror, shaking his head at his reflection. Already, he had dark circles underneath his eyes from the night of not really sleeping, his hair tousled and his clothes wrinkled. "Geoff I know you're back there." He said to the mirror, "We used this same room to interrogate Mark Nutt, remember?" Mark Nutt had been one of the most powerful drug lords in the city, and, during what was supposed to be a peaceful meeting to discuss territory, Nutt had attacked Ryan, had almost killed him.

Geoff had been livid, almost giving the man directly to Ryan to "deal with", but they needed him coherent and in one piece to take over his drug cartel. After several days of Michael and Geoff interrogating him (the lad getting pissed off enough at one point to stab the back of his hand straight through into the table), he had relented and given up all of his information.

The room remained silent, and Michael huffed, rolling his eyes and turning away, sitting down at the table and running a finger over the groove from where his knife had pinned Nutt's hand to the table.

He didn't know how long he sat there, lost in thought of his time in the crew, but his head snapped up as the door opened and Geoff stepped inside, the door closing again with a clang that echoed around the walls of the room as the two stared at each other.

"Your mustache is gone." Was the first thing Michael said, his mouth moving before his mind could catch up.

Geoff's lips barely twitched at that. If Michael hadn't once known the man almost as well as he knew himself, he wouldn't have known that, in any other situation, Geoff would have laughed at that. As it were, Geoff took the seat across from Michael, linking his fingers together on the table in front of him. "

You could have said goodbye." He finally said after a long stretch of silence.

"And you would have let me go?" Michael asked, and nodded as Geoff pressed his lips together, staying silent. "Exactly."

"Why did you go?" Geoff asked, "I thought... we thought you loved it, being in the crew."

Michael avoided Geoff's eye now, picking at the wooden surface of the table, a nervous habit he had developed over the years that often times left him with a bloody fingernail. He started as Geoff's hand was placed on top of his, moving it away from the table. His eyes lifted to meet the other man's, his skin tingling where it met the warmth of Geoff's palm.

"How many times do I have to tell you you're gonna hurt yourself?" Geoff asked, releasing his hand.

"Why do you care?" Michael asked, his mind still whirling from the contact.

Geoff smiled sadly at that, getting to his feet, "I never said I stopped caring about you, Michael." He said, before turning and leaving the room, leaving Michael to his own thoughts.

\- - -

Michael wasn't entirely sure how long he was in that room. He knew, by counting how many times Geoff brought him food, that it was approximately three days, at least so far.

Each time he was brought a meal, he and Geoff would sit at the table in silence while Michael ate, and then tentative conversation would start up, discussing simple things. One time Michael asked if they were planning any heists, and Geoff had admitted that he'd put a hold on anything big for a while, although he wouldn't say why.

One afternoon (or what Michael assumed to be afternoon, considering it was after he was brought lunch), Michael sat on the bed, gazing up at the featureless ceiling, lost in thought. That was usually what he did when he was left alone, since sleeping brought on nightmares and there was no medicine to remedy that now.

_"Hey, do you think I could steal this ice cream?"_

_Michael looked over from where he was standing by the frozen pizzas in the grocery store, Ray grinning with a quart of Ben and Jerry's in his hand._

_"You can rob a bank, I'm pretty sure you'd be able to steal some ice cream." Michael replied, adjusting his grip on the grocery basket._

_"I'm gonna do it." Ray said, and before Michael could speak again he had the ice cream jammed in the waistband of his shorts. Michael forced himself not to laugh as they walked to the register, Ray struggling to keep a straight face as the cold ice cream pressed firm against his skin._

_As the cashier scanned their stuff, Ray stiffened next to Michael suddenly, his eyes widening fractionally. Both Michael and the cashier looked at the man, who had vanilla ice cream running down his leg._

_"Are you trying to steal that?" She had demanded, and Michael bust up laughing as Ray grabbed his wrist and started running._

\- - -

Geoff watched Michael through the one way glass as the younger man sat, staring off into space.

He had no idea what he was going to do now. It had been several days and he had gotten no information out of the lad, so now what was he supposed to do? He couldn't keep him locked up forever. Hell, he didn't even want to lock him up in the first place.

Letting him leave again though... As selfish as it was, Geoff couldn't bring himself to do so. He refused to lose Michael again. Somehow, he knew that knowing that Michael was alive but didn't want anything to do with them... That was going to hurt. It _did_ hurt.

With a groan he fell back into his chair, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, "What the fuck am I going to do?"

\- - -

Geoff wanted nothing more than to just go home and go to bed, his feet dragging like lead blocks as he shuffled into the observation room by Michael's cell, grabbing his phone and turning his attention to the window, stepping closer as the form of Michael asleep on the bed stirred, a pained noise echoing around the nearly empty room and permeating through the glass to where Geoff stood. He worried at his bottom lip with his teeth as Michael stirred more, his legs tangled in blankets and sheets, hands grasping hopelessly at the air.

Geoff knew it would be a bad idea to go in there and wake the lad. Michael still didn't completely trust him after all this. Hell, Geoff wasn't even sure he trusted Michael, but at the sound of the younger man letting out a whimper his feet were moving him out of the observation room to the door of the cell, swiping the keycard to grant him access to the space.

He strode with sure steps to the other side of the room as the door shut with a loud bang, causing Michael to sit bolt upright in his bed, sweat coating his pale face with a light sheen and sticking his shirt to his skin. As he noticed Geoff walking towards him, he struggled to get his legs untangled from the sheets, his breathing heavy like he had just ran a marathon, body shaking like a leaf.

"Hey. Take some deep breaths, buddy. You're not going to get shit done while you're panicking like this." Geoff said in a calm, level voice, sitting at the foot of the small bed, watching the younger man carefully as he took a few deep breaths, his hands steadying as he slowly untangled himself from the sheets.

Once he was free from the restraint, he cleared his throat and spoke in a small voice that made Geoff's heart ache, "This started after I left." He scrubbed at his face with one hand, taking a shaky breath as he tried to shake off the lingering fear from the dream.

Geoff hesitated for a brief moment before moving to sit next to Michael, the sides of their legs touching as he draped an arm around his shoulders. The lad tensed for a moment, then relaxed and leaned into the gent's side, sighing softly.

The two men sat in silence for a long time, until Michael's breathing slowed and he drifted off to sleep. Geoff willed himself to keep his eyes trained on the far wall of the room, not daring to look down at the young man in his arms. He knew his heart couldn't handle it, but eventually he gave into the urge, his eyes falling to examine the features of Michael's face, expression softened from sleeping. He kept his hair longer now, Geoff noticed as he reached up to brush some of the curls back from his forehead, his breath catching as Michael stirred and turned onto his side, an arm draped over Geoff's waist and his head pillowed on his chest.

Geoff slowly closed his eyes, taking deep breaths as one hand rubbed soothing circles onto Michael's back. That's the last thing he remembered before it was morning, not remembering having fallen asleep. Before he even opened his eyes, he was aware of the fact that Michael wasn't in the bed, the sheets cold beside him.

When he did open his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of the door to the cell gaping wide open, and Geoff's heart dropped like a rock to settle somewhere in his gut. He couldn't lose Michael. Not again. He jumped up out of bed like a rocket, running into the hall and startling the guard standing beside the doorway.

"Where the fuck did he go?" He demanded, and the girl stammered slightly before telling him that someone from the crew had retrieved him early that morning.

With a sick sense of dread, each step feeling like he was on his way to his death bed, he ascended the stairs to the living space of the building, spotting Michael's curls peeking up over the back of the couch, sitting directly across from Jack, who looked up as Geoff's entrance, a disappointed frown on his face.

“I think you both have some explaining to do.”


End file.
